


The Culling of the Stars

by dirigibleplumbing



Category: Marvel (Comics), Marvel 616
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Civil War: Fallen Son - The Death of Captain America, Comic Book Law, Comic Book Science, Depression, Getting Together, Grief/Mourning, Happy Ending, M/M, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Pining, Post-Civil War (Marvel), Reconciliation, Secret Invasion (Marvel), Story within a Story, Temporary Character Death, What If? Fallen Son
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-11
Updated: 2021-01-11
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:00:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28164402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dirigibleplumbing/pseuds/dirigibleplumbing
Summary: Tony dies saving Steve's life on the courthouse steps. Now Steve is left with the fallout of their Civil War, expected to take charge and preserve Tony's legacy. He doesn't know how he can do it alone—not when he can't stop thinking about Tony, or keep track of the days, or even feel.
Relationships: Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Comments: 56
Kudos: 170
Collections: 2020 Captain America/Iron Man Holiday Exchange





	The Culling of the Stars

**Author's Note:**

  * For [frostfall](https://archiveofourown.org/users/frostfall/gifts).



> Happy holidays, frostfall! I loved your prompts. I want to read stories based on all of them. I wrote the one that most captured my imagination and that I thought I could do the most justice to. I hope you like it!
> 
> More on the character death in the end notes, with spoilers.

The frenetic crowd swells into a screaming swarm. There’s blood in Steve’s eyes, obscuring his vision, and he’s disoriented, from falling and from the bullets that knocked him over—but he knows what the burst of red and gold approaching him is, and he knows it’s Sharon who’s screaming his name. Then red and gold is all he can see; Tony crouches over him, pinning and shielding him. The sniper is still firing. Bullets strike the armor, then fall harmlessly to the ground. 

Steve’s hands are cuffed behind his back, trapped under him, so he has less leverage than he’d like, but he can get up, he can push Tony off him—

“Sharon, the shooter—” Tony is cut off by the sound of a rifle being fired, loud and close, and Steve doesn’t know who’s been shot or if the bullet hit its target but there’s no sound of it hitting the suit or anything else, and then there’s another shot, another, another, and the full weight of Tony and his armor pins Steve to the ground, hard and cold and then warm and wet—

There’s a roaring in Steve’s ears that has nothing to do with the volume of gunshots. Sharon’s still yelling, the crowd is still pulsing and bellowing. Why isn’t Tony moving? Is it Steve’s blood, was he hit again, what’s— 

A clamor of SHIELD agents disarm Sharon and pull her away. Tony still isn’t moving. 

* * *

Steve first read _The Culling of the Stars_ the autumn he turned eighteen. He found it at the back of a junk shop and paid a nickel for it, along with three other yellowing science-fiction novels, and read it in stolen moments on the weedy lawns of Central Park. He found it unremarkable at the time: it was only one of several space operas he read that summer featuring stoic men, accompanied by scantily-clad alien women, who traveled from one exotic planet to another. 

By October, temperatures dropped below freezing, and the crowd of furniture and bodies that filled the small apartment he shared couldn’t make up for the absence of heater fuel. He spent his nights shivering and failing to imagine the sensation of sunlight on his bare skin. Sound sleep became a dream as distant as the reaches of outer space. When the snow came that November and fingers of frost feathered across the windowpanes, he remembered the bleak picture of desolation and absence painted by _The Culling of the Stars’_ interplanetary journeys, and had retrieved the book—cover falling off, pages curling with damp—from the collection he kept under his bed. The neon marquee of the Jewish delicatessen on the ground floor climbed alongside his window, and its scant saffron light was just enough to read by. 

He reread the whole book that night while the snow fell, and in the morning dragged himself to work, sapped of heat and wakefulness, aching in new ways. Still, he started it again the next night, slowing down to savor the overwritten emotions and ostentatious alien landscapes. 

Winter wore on, bringing colder days and bad news out of Europe. Each night when the cold leached into his bones, Steve read, and gazed up at the constellations above to imagine the stars winking out one by one. 

When Steve woke up in the twenty-first century, he’d tried to find and buy the book again. Tony introduced him to so many wonderful books and films, and Steve wanted to share one of his favorites—and Tony had reminded him of Brickenn Jamith, the troubled protagonist far from his beloved home and cursed with secret knowledge of a galaxy-spanning threat. Steve never found a copy. 

* * *

Steve’s permitted to attend Tony’s funeral. He’s uncuffed before he delivers his speech. He’s not sure what he says. He meant to plan it, but words wouldn’t cohere in his head, and now he’s at a podium, and he can hear himself speaking, but he isn’t listening. By unspoken agreement the audience pretends that a week ago he didn’t try to kill Tony himself. 

Sharon fired the shots that killed Tony. She’s in SHIELD custody, as is Crossbones, who’d been sniping. Bucky and Sam caught up to him, apparently, though Bucky’s in the wind again. Sharon’s memory is spotty, but psychics have traced her brainwashing to Dr. Faustus, who was posing as a SHIELD psychiatrist, and Faustus in turn has been connected to Red Skull. She’s confused on most points, but didn’t seem to have expected Tony to be there at all. Her target was supposed to be Steve. This was meant to be the climax of Red Skull’s master plan: Steve’s public death at Sharon’s hands. 

The thing is, shooting Iron Man shouldn’t do much of anything. A loud noise of a bullet hitting the armor, maybe, or a smudge of lead powder over a patch of plate. The armor stands up to fire from anti-aircraft weapons, anti-materiel rifles, repulsors, and superhuman energy blasts. Shots from a sniper and a pistol should be no more to Tony’s armor than falling leaves. 

When Steve had shouldered Tony off him, the armor had looked—other than the smears of blood and incongruous bullet holes—the same as it had when Tony had visited Steve in his cell. 

The time before that, though—the image is seared into Steve’s memory. Tony’s armor, sparking and scratched, disabled on Steve’s orders. Steve told Tony that he’d lost when he sold his principles, but it was Steve who lost when he’d cracked open Tony’s faceplate with his shield. 

The damage from that battle is, according to Pym and Reed, what caused the fault. Tony replaced the helmet and had diagnostics running on the rest of the armor. To all appearances, it was pristine. But it hadn’t been, and then there was Tony, fully armored, bleeding out from a few measly bullets. 

Sam’s at the service, too. He registered so he could come officially. Steve knows Sam did it for him. Sam doesn’t think he owes Tony anything, but he knew what his presence would mean to Steve. 

Tony is put to rest among the stars. Steve doesn’t know if Tony had asked for this, but he thinks Tony would’ve appreciated that his funeral service involved a rocket being shot into space. 

When the launch countdown starts, Dugan uncuffs Steve long enough for him to join the salute. 

Sam nods at him as the SHIELD agents lead him back to the prisoner transport. 

* * *

The first night after Steve was arrested, he raged. It was easy to scream at Tony’s impassive faceplate. Tony sold his principles. Tony made this war. Tony would do anything to grab power. 

Steve’s back on the Raft now, hunched over, numb, exhausted. And he misses not so much the certainty of his anger and pride but the intensity and confidence of it. Emotions are distant. They don’t sit properly in his mind or his heart. They manifest instead in his body, in his eye sockets, under his ribs, in frost forming over his skin. 

He pictures Tony’s body in its golden coffin, momentum unchecked in the vacuum of space, ice crystals in his veins, stars going dark around him—the universe dimming and disintegrating in his absence. 

* * *

The narrator of _The Culling of the Stars_ , a lavender-skinned woman from the Crystalline Moon of Urlak named Klithua Aniig, spends her travels with Brickenn Jamith trying and failing to learn more about him. 

Initially intending to assassinate Brickenn on behalf of the Dread Assembly, Klithua first encounters Brickenn when she tracks him to a remote town in the sapphire desert of Ungoliant VII. He works there as a test pilot flying experimental starfighters. She passes up several opportunities to kill him in favor of learning more about him instead, though she discovers very little. All the locals know about him is that he keeps to himself, dresses in black, and was once a captain with the Sunken Division of the Crimson Company. 

When Brickenn is asked to take one of the prototype ships, the _Artegall_ , to New Thyoph, Klithua gets herself hired as a mechanic on the small crew.

The first he speaks of himself is when he tells her about his home planet. 

She’s tricked him into joining him for dinner, but to her disappointment, the meal passes in silence. Through the porthole beside their table, a star winks out of the sky before their eyes. Klithua points it out to Brickenn, expecting him to brush her off as usual. Instead, he tells her about his home planet: lush, resplendent, home to glittering insects as colorful as gemstones, gemstones that look like they contain nebulas and spiral galaxies, and trees broader than ten men and as tall as the heavens. His voice fills with longing, his body animates with emotion, and Klithua is more enchanted with him than ever. 

She asks him why he would ever leave such a paradise, and he closes off again, replying tersely that he’ll return when his work is done. 

It’s not until the climax of the novel—after Brickenn has learned of Klithua’s mission to assassinate him, after the battle between the Craven Insurrection and the Death Separatists has interrupted the scientific conference on the Ice Hive of Petbe—that Klithua and the reader learn that Brickenn’s home planet is Earth. Klithua has never heard of it, and asks again why Brickenn is in this war-torn corner of the galaxy instead of the world he yearns for. He tells her again that he’ll return someday.

When Klithua and Brickenn are trapped on a damaged star cruiser on a collision course with a white dwarf star, he divulges to her that Earth’s solar system was the first to disappear, and that he is a galactic fugitive from governments and criminals alike because he possesses singular knowledge of the forces behind the culling of the stars. 

Brickenn is rendered in negative space. He has few words to offer, and fewer still to describe himself. The loss that defines him is that of a single pinprick of light vanishing among a firmament still teeming with stars—an absence visible only to those seeking it. 

* * *

It’s the day after Tony’s funeral. Steve would be surprised by how quickly time has gone by, if he had the capacity to do so. 

There’s no fight, there’s no war, and there’s no Tony. No chance for reconciliation. 

A week ago, Steve would’ve said that Tony’s actions were unforgivable. Now… 

The day goes on without Steve. The passage of time is meaningless to the roaring in his ears. 

At least here no one counts on him for anything. He’s not expected to lead or inspire anyone. He’s not even responsible for arranging his own meals. There are no consequences for losing track of time. 

Maybe they’ll keep him here forever. 

* * *

Steve’s trial might last hours or weeks. It might be an excruciating dream, the kind where he can’t feel or move or even decide where to look. 

Jen acts as his lawyer. He’s not sure who arranged that, but it’s good optics: She-Hulk, superhero and staunch supporter of Registration, representing Captain America, traitor. 

Reed speaks as a character witness for him; Steve’s surprised Reed even knew the trial was happening. 

“He came to me and suggested it himself,” Jen tells him. “He said Tony would’ve wanted him to.” 

Reed would know, Steve supposes. Steve used to think he knew what Tony wanted. The war taught him that he never did. 

Reed’s not the only one from Tony’s side acting as a witness for the defense. Jan and Rhodey are there too, and more surprisingly, Carol. 

A Stark Industries lawyer brings Steve a letter from Tony. For a brief period, time moves again as Steve reads it, curled over himself on the bench in his cell, then reads it again, again, again. Time might be moving too fast now—Steve’s thoughts are, too fast for him to pin down. 

Jen finds out. “You’re going to read it on the stand,” she tells him. “You _are_ ,” she repeats, seeing the look on his face. “Dead or no, he’s going to be a character witness for you.” 

Time accelerates, like a bullet, then stops short just as abruptly. Steve’s dressed for court and the letter is in his hands, the creases in the paper showing the wear of how many times it's been folded and unfolded. 

“‘I hope you never have to read this, old friend,’” Steve begins, and wishes for his mind to sever him from reality as fully as it had before. His awareness of the courtroom is dim, but not dim enough. 

At the funeral Tony was a body, silent and absent. Now he’s right here, letting Steve speak on his behalf, and Steve’s voice splinters when he reads, “‘And you, Steve. Whether you believe it or not, I always trusted you. Even during the darkest days—during the war—I never stopped believing in you.’” 

Did Tony want anyone other than Steve to hear this? It doesn’t matter, because Tony’s gone, and everyone thinks they get a say in what his legacy means. 

“‘I need your help, Steve,’” Tony says from the page, through Steve’s voice. “‘You’re the only one I trust to make certain everything I was working for doesn’t fall apart without me and to ensure that the threats I wasn’t around to predict don’t end up blindsiding us in my absence.’” 

Tony had a plan for this—like he does for every eventuality, it seems—and his plan was Steve. What a joke. 

“‘When the time comes, the world will still need heroes. It will still need you. And when the fighting is over and history is written, I can only hope we will be remembered as more than just heroes.’” The letter’s almost over. In a matter of seconds, Steve will go back and sit beside Jen, and if he’s lucky, his mind will shut down again. “‘I hope that we will be remembered as I will always remember us: as friends.’”

Steve wants to hit something. His fingers try to curl into fists, and the letter starts to tear along one of the folds. For the first time in days his heart is racing, and he’s feeling, he’s feeling so much, too much, his rage is large enough to swallow cities. Tony, the futurist, no doubt predicted Steve would react like this; but if he did, he would’ve been entirely wrong about the reason. 

“You did great, Cap,” Jen says when it’s done. 

He thinks his muscles might vibrate out of his body. Jen’s still talking, and Steve can hear her, but she sounds like she’s speaking over a beehive. “He didn’t want you stuck in a cell. He would’ve done everything he could to get you out.” 

* * *

“That doesn’t make any sense,” Steve says again. “I committed _treason_.” 

“You weren’t found guilty of that,” Jen says, also not for the first time. “Tony was right; people need heroes.” 

“I’m the last person who should be running Registration,” Steve insists. “It’s absurd.” 

“Secretary Kooning, a federal judge, and a jury of your peers disagree.” 

“How is this even supposed to work?” 

“Think of it like community service.” 

“Community service. Enforcing the Superhuman Registration Act.” 

“Yep.” Jen smiles. “C’mon, at least now you’ll know it’s being done right.” 

“What if I don’t do it?” 

“I wouldn’t suggest that. Sam may have registered, but he can still be prosecuted for working with you. Same for the rest of your team.” 

There's also the members of Steve's team who've already been captured and imprisoned in the Negative Zone. Jen doesn't have to say out loud that their futures are contingent on Steve's cooperation, too. Someone in charge knows Steve won’t refuse, with their freedom at stake.

“So say I show up, I’m—ostensibly—in charge of SHIELD… what’s supposed to stop me from disbanding the Cape-Killers—” 

“Superhuman Restraint Units—” Jen corrects. 

“—and running everything like the Act never passed?” 

“Sub-director Maria Hill is what. She’s in charge of keeping an eye on you.” 

“Sub-director? I bet she loved that.” 

“It was her idea. Apparently, Nick Fury’s shoes are hard to fill.” 

“So I’m the next sucker who has to try?” 

“Now you’re getting it. All the details are right here.” She taps the file folder on the table between them. “When not in the field, your movements are confined to the Helicarrier, or other SHIELD facilities on a case-by-case basis. You can be Captain America, but you can’t be on any superhero teams. Ms. Marvel will lead the SHIELD-sanctioned Avengers. That’s the gist.” 

“And this is for how long?” 

“Officially? A year.” 

“A year? For treason and sedition?” 

Jen chuckles. “You were not found guilty of either of those charges, Captain.” 

Steve’s jaw works. This is ludicrous. 

“Does it help,” she says, “to think about this as something that’s being done for him, and not for you?” 

His eyes fall shut. He can’t bring himself to reply, but he thinks she knows his answer. 

* * *

The agents probably expect Steve to give a speech. Maybe Maria does too. But what the hell is he supposed to say? The whole situation is a farce. 

He does the job. He gives orders, he replies to questions, and he says little else. 

_You’re the only one I trust to make certain everything I was working for doesn’t fall apart without me._

How could that possibly be true? This can’t be what Tony meant. 

Steve gets through the first day by operating his body like a puppet. He should hate this. He should refuse to take part in any of this. But he just feels empty. No, he’d feel empty if he were capable of feeling. He _is_ empty. A void where his organs should be. 

When night falls, Steve stands on the deck of the helicarrier, accompanied only by a brisk wind and agents standing silently at their stations. He looks up to a sky dimmed by smog and light pollution—only a fraction as many stars visible as when he stared out the window of his freezing tenement, reading by the light of a neon sign. It had only been a handful of short months later that Steve was transformed into Captain America. 

Days pile up behind him. He gets through the week. He wonders when the outrage will hit. Or maybe the shame will come first. 

* * *

Steve knows what he’s supposed to do. He’s supposed to talk about how he’s feeling—which is impossible, because he can’t talk about what’s not there. But Sam’s been trying to get in touch with him, and, well, if Steve can manage a week working at SHIELD, he can reach out to his friends—what friends will speak to him, given his work these days. 

Besides. There are certain requests to be made. He owes it to Tony. 

_The suit is nothing without the right man inside… and there aren’t many I’d trust to pilot it. Rhodey. Pepper. Happy. Maybe Jarvis… though he was never really the hero-type._

_And you, Steve._

Sam says, “Steve, I know he was… important to you. But I don’t have a lot of nice things to say about the guy. You wanna talk, I’m here to listen, but I don’t know if I can do much else.” 

He doesn’t want to talk. He should do it anyway, but he can’t explain any of it to Sam, not when Sam still sees Tony as an enemy. 

Rhodey says, “Absolutely not. I’ve already got a job Tony wanted me to do, and that’s running the Initiative. I’ve done the Iron Man thing, and I’m sticking with War Machine.” 

Honestly, Steve’s surprised Rhodey doesn’t say worse. He’d deserve it. It’s his fault Tony’s dead, and they both know it. 

Carol says, “I can’t. I can’t talk about him. Not yet. I know you cared about him, but you weren’t there. You didn’t see him. You hurt him, and I can’t forgive you yet.” 

She meets his gaze with hard, red-rimmed eyes. Standing up to him in a way few people dare—the way Tony did. 

Bucky says, “Just point me at Red Skull and the rest, and I’ll go.” 

He leaves without another word. 

Steve thought he was helping Bucky when he gave him his memories back. But maybe he’s never actually known what his closest friends need from him. 

Steve doesn’t expect Pepper to want to be Iron Man any more than Rhodey did, but he asks, and what she has to say is the worst of all. 

Pepper says, “Maybe Tony ran a company and worked as a superhero, but honestly, Steve, just getting out of bed and brushing my hair is a big accomplishment for me right now, and it’s already my job to keep Tony’s millions of employees from losing their jobs, working for Aleksander Lukin, or both.” 

“Lukin is—” 

“I know exactly who Lukin is, Captain. Knowing when the CEO of a megacorporation interested in buying us out is actually a fascist supervillain is, as you can imagine, a crucial aspect of my job. So I know you’ll agree that stopping him from taking over Stark Industries is my top priority. Unless, of course, you have proof of his crimes. That’d save us all a lot of trouble.” 

“I’ll get proof.” 

“Then we both have work to do. Don’t call me unless you have something I can use.” 

* * *

Missions and cases and meetings tangle together. Steve’s recall is perfect, but right now, he can keep track of the days only if he concentrates, if he grasps and presses until they’re in reach. 

He should’ve learned by now not to let opportunities pass him by. Tony had seemed unattainable. And then Tony had been an adversary. An impossibility.

Steve missed his chance. He thought he’d have time. He’s a coward, and he thought—he’d hoped—that it would be Tony’s idea. They’d go to their favorite diner, the one with the weird omelets named after the Avengers, or a new restaurant Tony wanted to try. Tony would order dessert, and offer Steve a taste: a kiss once removed. They’d walk back to the mansion together, too absorbed in conversation to notice the cold or the passage of time or the clouds obscuring the night sky. And then Tony would take hold of his hand and smile that soaring, sky-high smile, and—

If Tony had given him the chance, Steve would’ve—

Instead, Steve wouldn’t even give Tony the chance to explain why he believed in Registration. 

Three weeks pass. It takes painstaking effort to sift out missions and moments from the detritus of thoughts. Like Steve’s searching for a single light in a single window in a single skyscraper when all of Manhattan is illuminated, a million points of brightness against the night’s dark. Clarity does not return; nor does cognizance. Shame and outrage never arrive. Every day, another part of him is plucked out, like marrow being stripped from his bones. 

* * *

A handful of Hydra agents are apprehended. A week later, three AIM lackeys are brought in. Several of these prisoners, independently of one another, attest that the body of Aleksander Lukin houses not only his own consciousness, but that of Red Skull as well. 

Steve almost expects to feel something when he assigns a taskforce to find Lukin, Faustus, and Zola. He doesn’t. 

Tony died trying to save Steve’s life. Would he have bothered if he knew Steve would become this hollowed out husk of a person? 

Yes. Of course he would have. Tony’s always thought he was expendable. And Steve let him. 

* * *

After a mine from an ancient battle knocks out the _Artegall’s_ engines and fatally ejects their engineer above the Veiled Wreck of Sonti, Brickenn recounts a morning waking on a mountaintop, his breath a white vapor, dew clinging to viridescent grasses, the tops of the clouds a flat plane of eiderdown under a cerulean sky. When their medic is killed by a bacterium on the Computer World of Cancri Prime, and Klithua and Brickenn hide from the mercenaries of the Violet Needle Brotherhood in glacier-carved subterranean caves, he describes the oceanic behemoths that wander his homeworld’s oceans, some surpassing the size of the _Artegall_ itself. 

The rest of their company pass away one by one, until the ship is crewed only by the pair of them—he muted and solitary in his bereavement, she obscured by her own lies and reaching for him nonetheless. He reluctantly reveals memories at each of their stops—New Laurentia, the vaniium refinery on Mauti III, Citadel of Meni on Charybdis Prime, Draconis IV, the ice hive of Petbe. 

And day by day another star fades from the celestial sphere. 

* * *

Steve stands behind a podium, Maria at one shoulder, the Mighty Avengers at his back. 

The official team. The registered team. 

It’s his job to announce and introduce them. He refused and was informed that this duty was not optional. 

“If they want me to look like I think this is a good idea, they’re going to be disappointed,” he’d said. 

“Cap,” Maria had replied, “anyone with sense has given up on you looking like you even know what a facial expression is, let alone an emotion.” 

Steve introduces the Mighty Avengers. It’s wrong, and not just because of Registration. He shouldn’t be doing this alone. He shouldn’t be standing here without Tony. It can’t be the Avengers when Iron Man, Thor, Hawkeye, Scarlet Witch, and so many others are missing—when more still are fugitives from the organization sponsoring the team. 

The press notices the absences, too. Or one of them. 

“Captain! Where’s Iron Man?” 

“Where’s the new Iron Man?”

“Cap! Is Iron Man on the team?” 

“Who’s replacing Tony Stark?” 

“Is there going to be another Iron Man?” 

The roaring in Steve’s ears, never entirely absent, grows to a thunderous volume. “As long as I have a say in it, there will never be another Iron Man,” he bites out. He turns his back on the crowd and walks away. Maria curses under her breath. He can’t bring himself to care. 

* * *

The word of a handful of detained Hydra and AIM members isn’t sufficient evidence to arrest the CEO of a megacorporation like Kronas, but their testimonies also include the location of the base where Red Skull, Zola, and Faustus have been working. 

No one stops Steve from putting himself on the mission. He meets the first wave of Hydra cannon fodder with more vitality and emotion than he’s felt in weeks. It’s like sensation returning to his limbs after coming in from the cold; he’s connected to his body, his purpose, his ideals. This is what he’s for. He knows this. There’s no question that this is right. 

Bucky is there when Steve and his team arrive. “What the hell are you doing, Barnes?” Maria yells when she sees him. Bucky slips away once it’s clear that Zola has escaped, and Lukin, if he had even visited recently, is absent as well. 

They leave with more than enough evidence to arrest Lukin. It’s not as satisfying as if Steve had gotten to crush Red Skull’s neck with his shield, but it’s more than they had before. And Stark Industries is safe. 

The next day, not a single one of the reports Steve receives mentions Bucky. Maria’s refers to him as an “unidentified combatant.” 

Pepper sends a bouquet to Steve’s office. He’s never been given flowers before, and he’s never seen a bouquet like this. It’s huge, a patchwork of textures, shapes, and sizes united by color: crimson peonies with honey-colored centers; golden marigolds with scarlet shot through their petals; flame-like birds of paradise; branches of plump kumquats; and red and yellow gerbera daisies mixed among them all. 

* * *

Steve falls asleep reading reports in his small room, tucked into a remote corner of the helicarrier. He wakes up, his eyes burning with tears, an ugly, gnarled grief strangling him from the inside. There have to be hidden security cameras and bugs all over, placed there by Maria, Fury, and any number of government agencies from any number of countries—but there’s no hiding this. So he cries. He curls in on himself and sobs until he falls asleep. 

He remembers when his days felt distinct from one another. A different problem to solve, a different challenge. Not just the fights and the villains, but the rooftop breakfasts, the late-night confidences. The evenings working quietly, separately, in the same room, enjoying each other’s company, alone together. 

Days used to have names, used to form narratives and constellations. There used to be someone to sit beside to gaze up at the vault of heaven and count the stars. 

How many times has he awoken in the night? Fully dressed, a laptop or stack of files in his lap, overcome by a devastation that strips the air from his lungs. How many nights has he turned his face to the wall and cried? 

It’s been almost a year since Tony died. 

Is it even Tony that he’s mourning? Steve didn't know him like he thought he did. Like he wishes he did.

It feels like he’s lost two people, and each loss has disemboweled him. His closest friend and an implacable despot, attacking and imprisoning their friends, building a war around himself until it carried him into the power he craved. Tony was the most important person in Steve’s life, and the man who took that person away. 

* * *

Steve is working late in his office. Maria tells him that even Fury took breaks, but Steve doubts Maria believes that herself. 

Dr. Strange appears, blue-tinged and translucent, in Steve’s office—some kind of astral projection or magical hologram. “Meet me at this address in half an hour,” Strange says, and vanishes. A scrap of paper lands on the floor where the apparition of his feet had just stood. 

The address is that of an empty industrial building. Inside he finds Strange—still in a nonphysical form—and he’s not alone. 

Steve hasn’t seen Reed since his trial. He doesn’t know the last time he saw Black Bolt. And there’s a body bag on the floor in front of them. “What is this?” Steve says. 

Reed and Strange exchange a look. “Let’s wait for the others.” 

Steve learns several things in quick succession. One: that Tony, Reed, Xavier, Namor, Black Bolt, and Strange have been meeting in secret for years. Two: that there’s a dead Skrull in the room with them, and before it died, its presence was undetectable to Wolverine’s mutant power, Strange’s magic, and Spider-Man’s senses. Even now, Reed’s tech can’t recognize it as a Skrull. 

Steve’s feelings aren’t hurt. He’s not surprised or angry. He’s not—anything. He wonders when Tony stopped trusting him. If he ever did. Tony hiding this from him would have meant something to him, once. But this is just another fact. Tony thought he knew best. Tony died because of Steve, thinking that Steve hated him. So what if Tony kept this from him. It’s just something else Steve can’t do anything about. 

An argument breaks out. Is this an invasion? Is this war? Is this their fault? 

Steve thinks about the year they’ve had. Losing Wanda, Clint, Jack, Scott. The destruction of the mansion. The mutants nearly destroyed. Atlantis evacuated. Nick Fury in hiding. 

And Tony, dead. 

Before he can say as much, Black Bolt speaks—and it’s not Black Bolt. 

Three: Black Bolt is a Super-Skrull. 

Four: it’s an invasion. 

* * *

A SHIELD team, the Mighty Avengers, and the Secret Avengers converge on a Skrull ship that’s crashed in the Savage Land. It’s an eerie echo of when the New Avengers came here; they’re even close to where Tony landed the Quinjet that day, only for it to get smashed by a Tyrannosaurus rex. Steve wouldn’t have expected the memory to be one he’d look back on with fondness. 

Luke reaches the ship and starts prying it open in the same moment that Steve loses contact with the helicarrier. 

Dozens of figures emerge from the ship. Steve recognizes every one of them. Most have been Avengers. Captain America is among them. So is Iron Man. 

The Iron Man model 4 armor hovers just at the shoulder of another Captain America. “Cap,” he says, “what _is_ this?” 

“I don’t know, Shellhead! Looks like those damn Skrulls are pulling another trick out of their sleeves!” 

The others are engaging with the Skrull duplicates—speaking, aiming, sizing each other up. Luke’s arguing with the Skrull impersonating him, Clint can’t look away from the false version of Bobbi, the Spider-Men face each other with identically wary posture, and Ares shouts at everyone to leave and let him handle the Skrulls on his own. No one listens. Instead, the two groups converge in a rush of voices and weapons. 

Steve knows how to do this; this is a challenge he can meet. His thoughts sharpen, honed on the siege of bodies and movement around him. He springs forward shield-first. 

The sky is a tangle of canopy, energy blasts, lightning, and arrows. Pairs break off, some mirrored—the two Spider-Men swing toward each other—others chronologically askew—Iron Fist ducking the claws of a Wolverine wearing a uniform the X-Men haven’t worn in years. The cannonade of thunder harmonizes with the barrage of explosions. 

Trees splinter and uproot, falling aside for a Tyrannosaurus rex that stomps into the battlefield. Its roar is earsplitting, shaking Steve to his bones. The sound is palpably _wrong_ , like a sonic weapon. Unwary Skrulls fall under the dinosaur’s tremendous feet; others fly or roll away. The whirl of brightly-colored costumes matches the vivid flowers and fleeing birds of the jungle. 

The other Captain America pivots toward him, shield perpendicular to his body. Steve’s ready for him. He punches his double with his shield over his knuckles. A repulsor is being fired, low to the ground, and Steve leaps to the air before he realizes why he’s doing it, clearing the repulsor blast and kicking forward. He aims for the other Captain America’s star. 

Before his boot can meet his counterpart’s chest, Iron Man cuts between them, striking Steve’s outstretched leg. Steve twists with the momentum, letting himself be knocked into a flip. He lands on his feet and gets his shield up just in time to block a blast from the model 4 unibeam. 

“Cap!” the Skrull cries in Tony’s digitized voice, darting over and hovering in front of Steve, blocking him from the false Captain America with his body. 

He’s talking to the other Skrull. Steve knows that. It’s not really Tony. It’s not. 

Steve redirects his ire into the battle. The Skrulls are doing this to manipulate them. He’s not going to let them succeed. 

Steve can read Tony in a fight. The years they spent working side-by-side translates—as Steve knows all too well—into facing him as an opponent. And he knows his own moves, the way he’ll lift his shield like _this_ when Tony starts turning like _that_ , how to angle his arm like _this_ so Tony can target his palm repulsor like _that_. 

This is his home. This is what Steve has left: his world, his fury, and his teammates. A thrum of rage beats just out of sync with his pulse. This is his advantage. 

Shards of the Skrull Iron Man’s faceplate scatter over the ground. Its chestplate is dented, caved in just over where a human heart would be, and one of the palm repulsors has gone dim. The other Captain America is favoring his left leg, his reactions are a fraction of a second too slow, and it looks like his jaw is dislocated. The false Iron Man approaches Steve from behind while the Skrull Captain America falters from Steve’s last hit. Steve slams one elbow back, hitting Iron Man’s helmet, striking out with the shield on his other arm. 

Steve presses his advantage. He knocks his double on his back, pins him to the ground. He ignores the world-tilting sense-memory of having Tony in exactly this position— _what are you waiting for, Steve? Finish it_ —and lifts the shield over his head—but before he can bring it down over the Skrull’s neck, the false Iron Man throws his upper body between Steve and his double. 

Steve’s shield rends the unibeam housing, sinks through the metal plate, and breaks the Skrull’s sternum with a fleshy crunch. 

The instant before the Skrull reverts to its true form—sharp and inhuman, the same green as the jungle—is seared in Steve’s memory. This is what it would’ve looked like, that last fight of their war, if the first responders hadn’t pulled Steve away. 

“Tony!” the other Captain America screams. 

No. How dare the Skrull say his name. This isn’t Tony. Steve’s double doesn’t get to pretend at Steve’s grief. 

The Skrull Captain America is still trapped under not only Steve’s weight, but now half of Tony’s too. Steve rips the shield off his double’s forearm, snapping the straps, and tosses it to the side. The move disarms his opponent, but it also gives the Skrull the opportunity to drag Tony off himself. 

While the Skrull’s arms are occupied, Steve slams his shield down across its throat. 

* * *

The rest of the invasion stutters by in flashes and skitters to a stop. An uncanny post-battle quiet settles over Manhattan. The Skrull threat is over. 

The damage they’ve done is stunning. 

The Skrulls had hit everywhere at once: SWORD, the Helicarrier, the Raft, the Cube, Thunderbolt Mountain, the Baxter Building, the Sentry. And a virus was uploaded to the Stark mainframe, destroying satellites and SHIELD defense systems. 

So much of Tony’s work. Gone. 

And Steve still left to carry on without him. 

This has been a disaster. No one will possibly want Steve in charge after this. 

* * *

The Skrulls are no sooner gone than Thor, having come to aid Earth, now calls for help defending Asgard. Fighting is sufficient distraction from the memory of the life fading out of Tony’s eyes. Not Tony. A Skrull. A Skrull wearing his armor, his voice—

Steve’s spent a long time miserable over Tony: over Tony’s actions and inactions, and now his absence. During the war, his anger turned Tony into a traitor and a villain. Now, Steve’s nostalgia and longing have created another Tony in his mind, as fictitious as the Skrull impersonating him. A Skrull who died protecting his Captain America as surely as the real Tony did—it’s another distorted echo, like landing in the Savage Land. Steve’s memory is perfect as far as objective reality goes, but his memories of the subjective truth of Tony lose coherence the longer he goes without being in the presence of Tony himself. What’s clear is that Steve bears the blame for his own misery. And if he _could_ see Tony again—

No. There’s no time for that. 

* * *

The Asgard crisis dealt with, the public reaches for comfort and familiarity. They look to Steve. Steve has nothing to offer them. 

Registration is over. The superhuman community is united. It feels nothing like a victory. 

There’s supposed to be another Avengers team. All sides of the war over Registration, cooperating. Steve’s supposed to be in charge. Of the team, of what’s left of SHIELD, of restoring people’s faith in heroes. 

He doesn’t know how he’s done this job as long as he has. He doesn’t know how he’s still standing. He should have flickered and blown out, like a guttering candle—like a dying star.

He’s not supposed to do this alone. 

* * *

Steve doesn’t have to live on the helicarrier any more, which is just as well, since his room there was destroyed during the crash, and living quarters aren’t a high priority for repairs. 

His new apartment is in Bed-Stuy. There aren’t as many memories there. 

Sam brings him a potted philodendron. “Nice view,” he says, setting the plant on a stack of boxes. 

For all that one wall is nothing but windows from edge to edge, Steve hasn’t noticed the view. In the absence of curtains and furniture, it’s the most prominent part of the room. 

“You should get a bird feeder,” Sam says. “This would be a great place for it.” 

Steve’s supposed to smile at that, so he does. 

Sam tries to get Steve to talk. He even asks if he wants to talk about Tony. “I mean, it’s been awhile. Is it him that’s got you looking like that, or is it something else?” When Steve doesn’t reply, he goes on, “You were fighting when he died. Is that it? You feel like it’s your fault?” 

Yes, they were fighting. Tony died thinking Steve hated him. Steve thought he hated him, too, which is worse. “I miss him,” is all Steve can say, and they speak of inconsequential topics until Sam leaves. 

Carol comes by, carrying a cardboard case of six slender glass bottles with artful labels and old-fashioned script. Steve recognizes it as a luxury brand of sparkling water that Tony liked. After a brief discussion of Avengers business—ostensibly the reason for her visit—she pops a cap off one of the bottles and offers it to him. “Hey. Wanna not get drunk with me?” 

He knows what she’s asking. This is where the two of them reminisce about their best friend. 

And though she doesn’t mean it to be, this is also where Steve’s reminded that Carol stood by Tony, listened to him, when Steve wouldn’t. He shouldn’t hold it against her. He’s glad Tony had a friend who was worthy of him. He just can’t abide her sympathy, which he doesn’t deserve, and right now he can’t stand her company, either. 

He accepts the bottle and takes a long pull of it. It tastes faintly of white tea and ginger. Carol watches him, then nods, her mouth twisting. “Okay,” she says. “We don’t have to talk.” 

They don’t. She leaves after she finishes her bottle. 

* * *

Steve is still in charge. People insist they want it that way. He gets back to work. 

That’s who he is. He does the job. The world needs Captain America. The world needs heroes, and they think that’s him. 

_You’re the only one I trust to make certain everything I was working for doesn’t fall apart_.

There are threats, battles, near apocalypses. Disruptions to the timeline, a fight over the Infinity Gems, aliens and villains. It may as well be an office job. New problems and crises, hours of overtime, work that’s become familiar and mundane. Rinse and repeat. He doesn’t need much sleep, and there’s always another catastrophe. Failing that, there’s always paperwork. 

If he goes a few days, or a week, at a time without sleeping, it only means he’ll sleep soundly when he finally collapses in bed, deep and dreamless. 

* * *

Steve read sitting up in bed, wearing his winter coat, paperback balanced on his knees, illuminated by the night sky and the neon deli sign. Instead of his patched and mostly intact gloves, he wore an old pair he’d saved despite its irreparable holes; an opening on his index finger allowed him the dexterity to turn the pages of his book. He’d doze off now and then, but couldn’t escape the chill that cut through wool straight to his bones. 

He didn’t think much, then, about being alone. He had few friends, none close, and no surviving family. If he’d ever failed to make rent, he’d have been replaced without a spare thought from his co-tenants. He took the bus to work because the crowds kept it warm, but the bumps and jolts shook his joints just as badly as if he walked. He worked despite aches and exhaustion, and knew he wasn’t the only one kept awake at night by the cold. Solitude was a fact of his life, background noise to his narrow breath, the pain under his ribs, the melted snow slush on the sidewalks and the frozen puddles on the pavement, the news coming from Europe. Survival left him little time for yearning, and he filled it with other people’s words of other people’s desires rather than contemplate his own. 

He had a single chapter remaining of his latest reread of _The Culling of the Stars_. 

In the final scene, Brickenn and Klithua are fatally wounded after fighting off the Star Cullers. Brickenn exhausts the scant strength he has remaining to activate the Forge of Stars, which will build a new sun to replace one that was just annihilated. It’s too late for the inhabitants of that solar system, but it will be a beacon for others—another light in the sky. It’s too late for Brickenn and Klithua, too, bleeding out faster than they can signal for help. 

Brickenn takes Klithua in his arms, the first time he’s touched her voluntarily. His blood, ruby-red, mingles with hers, bone-white. _The Artegall_ is running on fumes, and is barely a safe distance from the newborn star when the ship’s computer alerts them to the imminent arrival of three more Star Culler ships. 

She asks him if he’ll see his home again soon. He closes his eyes and says _I hope so_. 

This is the last line of _The Culling of the Stars_. The back cover promises a sequel is in the works, and eventually, a complete trilogy. In the summary for the second book, Brickenn and Klithua are alive, so they must survive their injuries and their second encounter with the Star Cullers. If further books were published, it was after Steve was lost to the ice; and when he came back, he couldn’t find them. 

Steve wonders if Brickenn really thought he’d see Earth again. He’d spent years living with the reality of its absence, visiting it only in his mind—long enough to inextricably entwine memory with imagination.

Steve’s apartment is empty. It’s never too warm or cold to sleep, and he lives alone. His bed is the only furniture he’s bought, and there’s no collection of books under it. The books he amassed in this century—gifts from Tony, mostly, eager to help Steve catch up on the decades of science fiction and fantasy he’d missed—were lost with the mansion. The handful of replacements he’d bought after its destruction—and the box-set of _The Lord of the Rings, The Hobbit,_ and _The Silmarillion_ with the gold embossing, a housewarming present from Tony—are still in the tower, as far as he knows. Maybe Tony got rid of them. 

Steve sits on the floor, face pointed, unseeing, at the window, and lets a sob escape his lips. Each heavy breath wracks his shoulders. 

It isn’t getting better. Steve isn’t getting better. 

_I’ll listen to you_ , Steve could have said, when Tony extended his hand at the chemical plant. _I’ll stay with you_ , he could have said. But he thought he knew best. 

_I love you_ , Steve could have said, during a quiet morning in the tower, after a team dinner at the mansion. _I love you,_ he could have said on a rooftop, in the wee hours of the morning in the old library, soaring above Manhattan, during a stolen moment in Tony’s office. 

Steve had thought saying it would be impossible. He wishes he could’ve remembered all the impossibilities Tony achieved every day, and said it anyway. 

Steve has no hope of seeing Tony again. Even if he believed they’d be together in death—and Steve doesn’t believe that, can’t allow himself such a grim hope—he has too many responsibilities. People need a hero. People need Captain America. He won’t see Tony again. 

_When the time comes, the world will still need heroes. It will still need you._

“Tony,” Steve says to the lights of Brooklyn, scattering and unfocusing through condensation forming on the window. His voice is too quiet to reach Tony, ice cold in his casket, unknowingly traversing the stars—is too quiet even to reach the streetlamp across the street. “I love you. I should’ve listened to you. I should’ve—you’re my best friend, and I wasn’t there for you. I couldn’t admit I might be wrong. I wish I’d told you. I wish you’d known how loved you are.” 

* * *

Steve steps out of his office to retrieve a tablet he left behind after a meeting. It’s late; the only people he encounters on his way to the long-empty conference room are agents at their posts. 

When he comes back, Tony is standing inside, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. 

Steve pins the intruder to the wall. “What the hell is this?” 

The thing with Tony’s face swallows. It seems to be at a loss for words. 

Whoever’s responsible for this is going to pay. This is a pointed cruelty. Steve won’t let anyone get away with using Tony this way. “Why are you wearing his face? Tell me!” 

“It’s me,” the thing—illusion, LMD, Skrull straggler—says. The voice is just right. “It’s Tony.” 

Steve lifts it by its shoulders and slams the back of its head against the wall. It collapses, eyes falling shut like a doll’s. 

* * *

Ten minutes later, the intruder is still out like a light. The results on Steve’s screen haven’t changed since he first conducted the scans. 

Magical traces: negative. Species: human, X-gene negative. Universe of origin: 616. DNA: Anthony Edward Stark. 

It’s Tony. It’s Tony, unconscious, vital signs stable, sprawled across the most comfortable chair Steve could find without letting Tony out of his sight. 

Steve’s pulled his own chair close to Tony’s. He clasps Tony’s fingers in his hand. He’ll let go when Tony wakes up. For now he’ll savor the touch. Tony is alive. Tony’s skin is warm, the crooks of his skin brushing against Steve’s own. 

Steve’s computer goes idle, casting the room into darkness, save for the one anomaly the scans couldn’t account for: a circle of light in Tony’s chest. Steve resists the impulse to touch it. The crisp cyan light falls diffuse over Tony’s face, luminous against the velvet shadows. He’s illuminated like the candlelit vignette of a La Tour painting. But instead of a flickering flame, fragile and insubstantial, the arcs of Tony’s face and the line of his throat are lit by a steady radiance of metal and glass. Steve wonders if it’s powering Tony’s heart. He wonders if it’s warm to the touch, if it hurts Tony where it’s set into his chest, if it feels like the tight lungs and constricted breath of an asthma attack. 

It’s several minutes more before Tony stirs. His eyes dart around the room, skittering over Steve’s face and where his hand rests in Steve’s own. 

“Tony. You’re alive.”

Tony gives a jerky nod, his eyes catching and reflecting the light from his chest. 

“Tony, I’m sorry, it’s you, _how_ —” 

“Yeah. It’s me.” Tony searches Steve’s face. “It’s complicated. Extremis, or what’s left—” 

“I missed you.” It doesn’t matter how it happened. All that matters is that it’s Tony. Steve’s eyes burn and blur. “You were gone so long.” 

“I’m sorry. Steve, I’m so sorry—” 

“Don’t be sorry. Just, don’t leave me again.” Steve’s still holding Tony’s hand. He squeezes it, needing the skin-to-skin contact, the reassurance of Tony’s warmth. 

Tony’s eyes are wide and confused, with tears peeking in at the corners. “Steve—” 

Steve hauls Tony into his lap, his arms tight around Tony’s back. He buries his face in Tony’s shoulder. “Don’t—can—did you ever—you and me” —he doesn’t know what he’s saying, his words are broken up by hiccuping sobs— “did you—did you ever think—” 

“Steve?” Tony’s gone tense in Steve’s arms. Steve pulls back so he can see Tony’s face. “Are you—” 

“I just.” Steve closes his eyes. Now that Tony’s here, it’s overwhelming to look at him. The reality of seeing him and speaking to him is staggering. “You’re back, and I thought I’d never—I won’t mention it again. I can’t lose you again. But I haven’t stopped thinking. Since you were gone. Would you—have you ever wanted me?” 

“ _Steve_.” Tony clutches Steve’s arms. “I’ve always wanted you,” he whispers. 

“I need you,” Steve says, opening his eyes to find Tony’s expression a reflection of his own. “I can’t do this, any of this, without you.” 

“You won’t have to.” 

* * *

Steve takes Tony home. Tony is subdued, speaking only when Steve prompts him. 

“You just move in?” he says when Steve lets them into his bare apartment. 

Steve ducks his head, shrugging. He locks the door and re-arms the security system. 

Tony watches him, head cocked. The skyline glitters beyond Steve’s window. It paints golden highlights on Tony’s skin, layering over the faint blue gleam that radiates from his implant. “I don’t have to stay here. It’s okay, I can—” 

“Do you want to stay?” 

The cobalt of Tony’s eyes glints with the sky-bright blue glow from the node embedded in his chest. He searches Steve’s face. Steve wants clarity between them, but he doesn’t mind being a puzzle to solve as long as Tony’s here to decipher it. After a moment, Tony nods. 

“Then stay. Please. Just—let me hold you?” 

Tony lets Steve take his hand again and lead him into his bedroom. Steve strips out of the bulkiest parts of his uniform and without further preamble tugs Tony into his bed. Tony must be able to read every wish and desire in Steve’s heart, but he settles against the mattress wary and frowning like he doesn’t know why he’s there. Steve wraps his limbs around Tony’s body, hoping that will be explanation enough. It feels like he’s holding a firefly in his fist and watching the light come through his fingers, knowing he’ll have to open his hand eventually. 

Tony inhales sharply but then his muscles go lax and he nestles into the crook of Steve’s shoulder, silent, and Steve’s asleep seconds later. 

* * *

When Steve wakes, Tony’s sitting on top of the covers, spine straight, gazing at Steve. 

“I know you were—surprised to see me last night,” Tony says, the words tumbling out of him like he’s been saving them up. “I’m not going to hold you to—I know Registration—” 

“Stop.” 

Tony’s mouth snaps shut. 

“We have a lot to talk about,” Steve says, slow, jerky, unsure of his ground. He pushes himself up by his elbows and scrubs at his face. “Have you talked to Pepper? Carol and Rhodey?” Steve should call Maria, too, and the Avengers. Reed will want to hear from Tony. Tony will probably need to talk to his lawyers, too. “I can call—” 

“I came straight to you,” Tony says, then winces, like he didn’t mean to. 

“I’m glad you did,” Steve says, watching him. 

“Why aren’t you angry?” 

“Why would I be?” 

Tony makes an aborted gesture that might be a shrug. “You were furious the last time I saw you.” 

“So were you. I almost killed you.” 

“So why don’t you want to now?” 

“No. I—Tony.” It makes sense, given the last events Tony can remember, but it means not only did Tony die for Steve thinking Steve hated him, but he came to Steve last night ready to die for him again. Steve starts to reach for Tony, then drops his hand, unsure of his welcome. “That was more than a year ago. You—your death gave me some perspective.” He chews on his lips. “And your letter.” 

“The things I said. The things I _did_. You can’t—you don’t need to—”

“I can,” Steve says, fervently. He knows, with great clarity, what Tony’s done. But Tony is brilliant, bright like a star, and the brightest lights cast the longest shadows. Steve’s been living under the one in his own mind since Tony’s death. Now that he’s back in the sun, he needs Tony there with him. “Please. Tony. I knew what I was saying.” 

Tony takes his hand. Steve can feel his sleep-warm skin, his pulse beating in his veins. Alive, Tony’s alive. He tells himself that’s all that matters. That, and the words Steve should have said years ago. “Last night—I was trying to tell you. I love you.” 

“Steve. I…” Tony shakes his head. “I’m not an easy person to love. To be with.” His words catch, raw and quiet, in the back of his throat. Steve thinks Tony might be trembling. 

“You’re worth it.” He’ll always be worth it. He’s Steve’s home. 

Tony jerks, cutting off a breath that’s not quite a gasp. His eyes are wide, his body lit on one side by an aurora of sunlight through the bedroom window, on the other by the blue-cast light of his chest implant. 

“Can I kiss you?” Steve asks. 

Instead Tony leans in unsteadily to kiss him, and Steve leans in to meet him. He welcomes Tony’s mouth, so hot and alive, with his own. His kiss is firm and searching. Steve squeezes Tony’s hand, his thumb still resting against Tony’s humming pulse. Alive, alive, alive. 

Steve tugs Tony closer, so their torsos are flush. Steve’s covers the face of Tony’s implant. The glow of it climbs up their chests, brightest where it spills up from the narrow line where their bodies meet—as if the soft cerulean light is forged in the place they’re pressed together. 

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Character death: I'm never sure how tagging's supposed to work for character death when it's temporary. Tony really dies, so it's not presumed death, but he comes back by the end.
> 
> Thank you to gelishan ([AO3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gelishan), [tumblr](https://iheartallthethings.tumblr.com/)) for the beta! Your feedback was invaluable. 
> 
> Everything in Tony’s letter is excerpted from [What If? Fallen Son](https://marvel.fandom.com/wiki/What_If%3F_Fallen_Son_Vol_1_1). Tony's body being shot into the stars and Lukin trying to take over SI are from there too.  
> Timeline-wise, Pepper shouldn’t be running Stark Industries yet, but I needed her there, so let’s say it was in Tony’s will.  
> I don't think Steve ever really _supports_ Registration in this universe, but I think he ends up regretting how he handled opposing it. 
> 
> I stole the phrase "the brightest lights cast the biggest shadows" from [About Farewell by Alela Diane](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DvwKCgLlpXk&ab_channel=AlelaDianeWildDivine), which is also an excellent Steve/Tony song.
> 
> [Tumblr post for the fic](https://dirigibleplumbing.tumblr.com/post/640064261449826304/the-culling-of-the-stars-fandom-616-pairings). If you liked it, please consider reblogging! Also check out [my tumblr](https://dirigibleplumbing.tumblr.com), where I post writing updates, writing snippets, occasional random updates about my life, lots of Steve/Tony and Will/Hannibal reblogs, an increasing amount of Untamed reblogs, and photos of gothic cathedrals.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Eclipse of the Sun (The Culling of the Stars Remix)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29606061) by [masterlokisev159](https://archiveofourown.org/users/masterlokisev159/pseuds/masterlokisev159)




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